lumps of Britain where the crude cars escape.
Where I sat by the rivers in half-light
there was only me. Someone put a bench there
so people sit on it. Hard to claim a thought once it's taken.
I could trace her bottom rib, up her spine, through
her hair --
through the sun
on petrous skin.
Walking in shadows of huge buildings
on a sunny day. The silence of cars in the city.
The pigeons find their pews. Custom built, they'd laugh.
No homes for the jays. Nothing's welcomed,
and the beggars forage with the pigeons, but the birds are home.
A fox-walks onto a road, in bare sun.
It doesn't remember how the trees were,
how a bark met the soil and clouds;
how they meet the crowns of trees;
wild and strange. Nurtured and culled
without words, or voice. Sand lies affably
beneath the weight
that's bedded under the sky's sole;
It meets the hinterland paths here.